


I Reincarnated as the Villainess's Companion?!

by YontifexMaximus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Comedy, Isekai, Light Novel, Meta, Multi, Pairings Revealed Later, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YontifexMaximus/pseuds/YontifexMaximus
Summary: My name is Melara Hetherspoon. I’m the companion of Cersei Lannister in her childhood. I’m ten years old and I’m supposed to die when I’m thirteen.Isn’t that too ridiculous?! I’m not planning on dying in three years!
Comments: 82
Kudos: 196





	1. The Accident

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why this is in my head right now, but it is. I've been reading a lot of that "reincarnated as a villainess in an otome game" manga and... this is what came of it LMAO. This is for the tiny population that consists of that fandom that overlaps with this one. I'm going to write it in vaguely light novel style.

My name is Melara Hetherspoon. I live with Father, Mother, and my brother Tyrek at our seat at Bracken Bailey. I’m neither good nor bad at sewing and embroidery, though I’m sure I’ll marry well despite that. Mother chides me for my vanity sometimes, but I know that even with my freckles, many consider me to be fair of face.

I’m ten years old now, and until the day that matches start to be considered I’d rather spend my days riding. My horse is the sweetest mare in Father’s stables, with dark eyes and a white-speckled grey coat. She loves celery and never kicks and, until today, has never reared with me on her back either. It was so unusual that I could easily ride her without worry or even focus, but today, when Tyrek burst through the ferns and underbrush ahead of us, she stood tall on her back legs. The world tilted and I screamed and then, nothing.

…

…

…

…

Wait.

I’ve… been in an accident like this before, haven’t I?

Yeah.

When I was driving my car to work one morning.

_A car? What’s a car?_

_Oh yeah, I was gripping the steering wheel, trying to stay awake._

I was gripping my steering wheel, the dash and the road in front of me kept fuzzing out. I had stayed up too late re-reading A Feast for Crows again.

And when the blinding lights of an oncoming truck drifted into my lane, I hadn’t been alert enough to swerve out of the way.

I…

I must have died, and-!

I shot up in bed, gasping for breath. An instant later, my head felt like it had been split open. I gripped at my temples.

“Lady Melara!”

Jeyne’s shouts made the pain worse.

Jeyne. One of the maids.

“You’re awake!” she cried. She tore from the room. “Milord! Milady!” Her shouts were growing distant. “She’s awake!”

I took in the room. My room. My skin crawled at the feeling of it being both familiar and not at the same time. The plain tapestries that hung on the walls were the same ones that had been in place since before I was born. The furniture hadn’t changed. But it felt different.

It was Melara’s, not _mine_ , at least not precisely. My head throbbed again.

I looked for water on the bedside table. The only thing sitting on it was a hand mirror. I picked it up with shaking hands and looked at my face.

It was the face of a young girl, no more than twelve. Her hair was light brown, and her eyes blue. Her whole face was dusted with freckles. I dropped the mirror.

What was that dream? But, but it wasn’t a dream was it? It didn’t feel like it. And other than being _me_ , Melara, I can also tell that I’m me. So what was that, if not a dream? It felt more like a memory that I had really experienced. It was full of things that felt both strange and familiar at the same time, like this room does now. Cars, asphalt roads. _The truck._

There was no mistaking the truck for a dream. That was completely real.

So…

And I feel crazy for even entertaining this possibility, but…

Maybe those were memories of my past life?

“Melara! Oh, sweetling!” Mother burst into the room and flung her arms about me, squeezing me close. She pulled back and took my face in her hands, looking between my eyes as if reassuring herself that they were really open. That I was really awake. Then she embraced me fiercely again and I felt tears begin to soak my collar.

“Mother,” I said worriedly, patting her head. “Mother, I’m alright. I’m going to be just fine.”

This only seemed to make her sob, so I contented myself to patting her hair, a perfect reflection of the brown I had seen in the mirror. Father approached us and took one of my hands in his, and the strength of his grip on it betrayed his worry past his stern countenance under his walrus moustache.

“We were very worried, Melara. No more riding for a little while, alright?”

“Yes, father,” I replied meekly. It was just as well. I wasn’t at all sure that I still knew how to drive a horse. _Drive a horse?_ That wasn’t right.

“I’ll send a missive to Lord Tywin you shall depart once you’ve fully recovered. Maester Jon informed us that you should be able to be out of bed back to your regular activities a few weeks after you awoke.”

Lord Tywin?

“Oh, you mustn’t, my lord!” Mother begged. “A few weeks? She’ll be far too fragile to travel so soon!”

“She’ll take a carriage to Casterly Rock,” Father replied, his tone brooking no argument. “And the girl’s ten already. We can’t have her stay as headstrong as she is now, or who would take her to wife? No, better that she learn a ladylike manner from Lady Cersei as soon as possible.”

Casterly Rock? _LADY CERSEI?!_

There was no mistaking names like that. I had read the books and watched the show enough times to know. It was crazy. I _felt_ crazy. But it was too big a coincidence to be just that. I knew those names as well as I knew the names of my friends.

“And if Jaime Lannister takes a liking to her, all the better.”

This is… I’m in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. And I was to be a ward of Tywin Lannister’s at Casterly Rock. Everything clicked.

My name is Melara Hetherspoon. I’m the companion of Cersei Lannister in her childhood. I’m ten years old and I’m supposed to die when I’m thirteen. I drown in a well after hearing a prophecy from Maggy the Frog.

Isn’t that too ridiculous?! I’m not planning on dying in three years!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to keep posting this and I'm very sorry for that


	2. The Strategy

Wells. I can’t go near any wells. They might be the only way to get water in a castle, but I refuse to die in that kind of The R--g-like setting. Wells are a serious death-flag.

And for that matter, witches that live in the woods are an absolute no-go. Maggy the Frog? More like, “I don’t wanna die because Cersei Lannister is superstitious!!”

And I've come to the biggest flag of all.

Cersei.

I don’t even know if she kills me in the future, but she certainly doesn’t do anything to prevent me from dying, either. Father seems dead set on sending me to Casterly Rock to act as her companion. It doesn’t seem very likely that I can escape meeting her, even if it’s the safest way. I have to plan for the worst.

Melara gets killed for two reasons. The first is that she’s present for the Valonqar prophecy and Cersei believes that if no one repeats it, it won’t come true. The second is that Cersei believes that Melara is trying to steal Jaime from her.

Isn’t that easy, then? All I have to do is avoid going with Cersei to see Maggy the Frog and to show absolutely _no interest_ in Jaime. I can do that.

But then again, Cersei is extremely suspicious of all girls she thinks of as being pretty. So I’d be a potential Jaime thief in her eyes no matter what.

Please have some consideration for your poor side characters who you kill off willy-nilly for the sake of other characters' development, Mr. Martin. Aren’t there way too many death-flags for Melara Hetherspoon?!

“Jeyne!” I called. She hurried to me.

“What do you need, Lady Melara?”

“Paper and… ink.” They use quill pens here, don’t they? Wait, of course we do. I took a steadying breath. She bowed, paying no mind to my moment of hesitation.

“Of course, milady.”

When she returned with paper and, yes, a quill and inkpot, I wrote down everything I could remember from the books and the show, from where it diverged. Melara was such a tiny part of it. I don’t even think Bracken Bailey had a name. I vaguely remember Cersei having another companion, but all I can say for sure about her is that she was too scared to go to hear the prophecy.

It was Lannisport, right? At the tourney for Viserys’s birth? I wracked my brain trying to remember. I had read the books through so many times, but there were so many details to keep track of. What year would that be? How many years older than Daenerys was he? Did the books start in 300 A.C.?

And Robert’s Rebellion… if I do manage to survive to adulthood (which I plan to!), I’m lucky that the Westerlands will be landing on the right side of it. I should do my best to find a nice minor lord who won’t get caught up in the War of the Five Kings.

…

I felt myself growing more and more frantic as I ran out of paper to write on. There was so much to consider. I really ought to be focusing on the immediate danger, and that was the possibility of dying because of Cersei.

And if I had to be around Cersei, maybe it was in my best interest to get on her good side. In her POV chapters she seemed to hate and be suspicious of almost everyone except Jaime and Tywin.

And Taena Merryweather. Taena!

Taena said everything Cersei wanted to hear. She fawned over her. She shared her similar fears about her son, whether they were true or not and whether Taena was aiming for something or not. Cersei didn’t suspect her for a second. She just thought of Taena as someone who was artlessly trying to get into her good graces as the queen regent. If anything, she seemed to appreciate that someone would smarm up to her specifically rather than use her to get influence with her husband or father.

Ignoring Jaime is the easy part. I doubt he’ll show any interest in me that will make Cersei jealous. He only had eyes for Cersei his whole life, according to his chapters. Melara was the one in the books who was always talking about how she wanted to marry him in the future. Not anymore, though. While I’m there, I’ll do my best to find a steady minor lord or landed knight who doesn’t want anything to do with politics. He doesn't have to be handsome or good at jousting. I plan to live to a ripe old age doing absolutely nothing.

Melara, you really didn’t know what kind of girl Cersei would turn out to be, did you?

So, here’s the plan. When I get to Casterly Rock, I’ll do my best to agree with her on everything, flatter her, and act like I think she’s the smartest person in the room.

Actually, maybe it would be easier for me to just fall off a horse again and hope my spine breaks this time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do your best, Melara! Don't die!


	3. The Introduction

Casterly Rock was a five days’ ride from Bracken Bailey making good time on horseback, but that timeline stretched to a week and a half when the trip was made in a wheelhouse. Father was accompanying me and would pay respects to his overlord, and perhaps also meant to ascertain that his bold and sometimes brazen daughter would not make an embarrassment of herself and her house.

He seemed ill-at-ease, cooped up as we were, and as the last time we stopped to stretch the tall, freestanding cliffs were visible against the sea he was growing anxious to arrive. He took to reminding me of how I was to comport myself as a ward of the Lannisters.

“Don’t arouse the ire of your hosts. Do try to be sweet and yielding, for I’ve heard tell that the young lady Cersei is also a girl of a prideful nature.”

That was certainly a way to put it. Before me, she had gone through lady companions like toilet paper. None could be convinced to stay for more than a year. The Melara Hetherspoon that I read about really must have been stubbornly attached to the idea of marrying Jaime, otherwise I doubt she would’ve stood for it.

“And remember that you’re not merely there to accompany her. Try your best to get in the good graces of all your hosts.” Father looked at me knowingly. “Recall that young Jaime has not yet been promised.” I felt a chill run down my spine.

“Yes, Father.”

“I understand that Lord Tywin dotes heavily on his two eldest children. To have his son fancy a girl would be a mark in her favor when it comes to his consideration for a betrothal.”

“I understand, Father.”

I understand that I wasn’t the only Hetherspoon who had eyes above their station. Sorry Father, but I won’t be doing anything that will get me killed.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in silence. He paced the modest length of the wheelhouse and I repeatedly pricked my fingers attempting to embroider. My body had taken on that familiar, yet unfamiliar character since the accident, and as a result I was unwieldy in movements that demanded finesse.

“Melara,” he said at last, sounding both excited and terrified. A moment later, the wheelhouse ground to a halt. We had arrived. “I trust you’ll be very happy here.”

Yeah, totally. Happy as a clam.

Ser Allister, who had ridden along with us, was the one to open the door to surprising darkness. I stepped out and looked up. Stalactites. We were in a cave.

The Lannisters weren’t here to greet us, and I realized that as our overlords, they would likely be receiving us in their Great Hall. We were led away to a set of steps that were carved to wind up into the face of the native rock.

It wasn’t like Bracken Bailey or any storybook castle I had ever seen. Casterly Rock was a fortress, and the further in we went, the more I felt my stomach turn. The more I realized exactly how out of my element I was.

The Great Hall was somehow even more cavernous than I had expected, or, more precisely, it was an actual cavern. I could see servants milling about on the opposite side, made tiny by the distance. They were close to a dais, and there were three figures standing atop it. Tyrion must be too young to receive guests still. That, or Tywin didn’t want his bannerman to see his dwarf son.

I did my best not to meet their eyes as I approached, and dropped into a low curtsy once I noticed Father bow.

“Rise, Lord Hetherspoon. Lady Melara.”

I did, and a serving woman came up to me with a small piece of bread and a tiny golden dish of salt. I took the bread, licked my finger and dipped it into the salt. Its sharp tang brought me memories of the way guest right could be betrayed in this world.

Don’t think about that. Just take things as they come.

So at last, I looked up at the dais and saw three of the Lannisters. Tywin had a shaved head and mutton chops, and while his expression felt cold, it was also calm as he and my father exchanged words. Jaime looked practically cherubic, an eight-year-old boy with girlish features and golden ringlets, but he was obviously bored and fidgety.

Cersei was looking directly at me, her eyes bright green and cat-like in a way that could only be possible in a fantasy novel. Her face was a duplicate of Jaime’s, but the look in her eye was so distinct that there was no mistaking the two of them. She had never met me, but she already knew she didn’t like me.

Why meee?!

“Melara,” my father whispered urgently. I dropped into another curtsy and recited the line I had refined on the trip here.

“I’m ever so pleased to make your acquaintance, my lords, my lady. It’s my dearest wish that I might one day earn your esteem and learn from you.” I made sure to meet Cersei's gaze as I said the last words, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Likewise,” she said simply.

Well, even if she doesn’t seem to trust me, maybe things will be fine if she’s alright with just being civil?

I’m going to eat those words, aren’t I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins!


	4. The Entertainment

“Oh, you needn’t worry, Septa Yulia. I’m sure Melara will improve with time.”

Cersei and I were receiving instruction in embroidery. She had been quick to notice the sloppiness of my stitches and just as quick to point the fact out aloud for the septa and Jeyne Farman to hear.

Naturally, Cersei’s stitches were both tiny and impeccable. She was working on a three-headed red dragon on black cloth, and you could actually see how sharp their expressions were, minute as they may have been. In contrast, my own lion’s head looked more like it had indigestion.

“She’s already nearly one-and-ten! Soon she won’t be able to excuse her lack of skill with her youth, my lady.”

“Ah,” she said, faltering. “Perhaps you’re right.”

As soon as the septa turned away, Cersei gave Jeyne a nasty, knowing smile, which Jeyne quickly returned.

I’ve been at Casterly Rock for two weeks since Father’s departure and this is about the level I’ve had to deal with the whole time. Honestly, it’s nowhere near as bad as I expected! If I really was a ten-year-old on the inside, I’d probably be crying myself to sleep and sending letters begging my parents to bring me home, but hey, I had already been through the dual traumas of being awkward in middle and high school. I like to think my skin isn’t so thin that little kids being jerks to each other would be enough to break me down.

So far, there hasn’t been much progress on operation “Butter Up Cersei.” Maybe I’ve been too obvious and she thinks I’m up to something. Maybe she just hazes all the girls who are unlucky enough to be chosen as her playmates.

Jeyne must be relieved I’m here to take the target off her back. Any time I’ve tried to talk to her, she’s literally turned and walked in the opposite direction. As if the taint of “new girl” would rub off on her if Cersei was to see accidentally.

“I’ll endeavor to do my best,” I said, intentionally soft, “but even my best efforts will never come to rival how Lady Cersei has rendered her dragons.”

Cersei merely scowled in response.

“Jeyne? Do you not tire of embroidery? Perhaps another diversion should suit us better.”

“Oh, yes, Lady Cersei! What do you suggest?”

“Perhaps Melara can entertain us somehow? No doubt she has other skills she’s put her time to, for surely her time must have been well-spent on cultivating something other than her embroidery. Singing, perhaps?”

Me? Sing? Well, in my past life I wasn’t great, but I didn’t make dogs howl either.

“I’m sure my singing pales in comparison to any of the singers who have been at your table, my lady.”

“But you must!” she cried. “What could sound sweeter than the voice of a friend, singing for my sake? Right, Jeyne?”

“Yes, my lady, it’s exactly as you say.” I tried to challenge Jeyne by meeting her eyes. She looked away as quickly and obviously as she always did. Right. Cool.

Both put aside their embroidery and Cersei drew the septa’s attention so that she could bear witness to my embarrassment, too.

“Well?” she prompted. “Go on!”

Frazzled, I started singing the first thing that popped into my head.

_I’m a little teapot, short and stout  
Here is my handle, here is my spout  
When I get all steamed up, here me shout  
Tip me over and pour… me… out!_

I realized that I was leaning over with my hand on my hip and one arm out. I had done the dance moves out of sheer muscle memory. I looked up and the three of them were staring, totally dumbfounded. Like they thought I had completely taken leave of my senses.

“Um. So that’s it, then,” I said lamely.

I take it back. Being an awkward middle school-age kid doesn’t get easier the second time around.


	5. The Yard

Now that the weather was starting to warm up, Cersei, Jeyne and I had decided to take a picnic lunch out of doors in the yard. Jaime was practicing a series of sword swings with the master-at-arms.

“He cuts a dashing figure, does he not?” Jeyne asked.

Hey, hey, hey Jeyne?! Don’t you go getting yourself killed now! I can’t look out for both of us!

“Naturally,” Cersei said, and to my surprise, she seemed to preen at the praise. As if the compliment had been paid to her as much as to Jaime. Maybe she really did see it that way.

“Of course, I’m sure he will make a splendid knight someday soon,” I ventured carefully.

Cersei acted as if I hadn’t said anything at all, choosing a jam filled pastry to fill her mouth instead of a reply. Isn’t the way she treats Jeyne way too different from how she treats Melara?

I looked at Jaime out of the corner of my eye, and his brow was furrowed with concentration. It was strange to see such a young child practicing for combat so seriously. This really was a harsh world.

Not that I need to be told. Now that my name day had (unceremoniously) passed, I was that much closer to the day I drown in a well. And I seem to be totally on track for it still! If anything, I feel like Cersei might hate me more than the Melara in the books.

My plan really wasn’t going well, and frankly, even if I survive the first threat who’s to say there won’t just be more danger for me right after? Honestly, it really is open season on characters like me who don’t have plot armor!

Perhaps I should learn to wield a sword, too…

Cersei and Jeyne were staring at me, slack-jawed. Did I say that last part out loud?

“A _sword?!_ ” Cersei demanded. “A lady like you, and as clumsy as you are? Impossible!”

She totally just slipped a real casual dig in there, huh?

“Lady Melara, I doubt Lord Tywin would allow it,” Jeyne told me, wringing her hands in distress.

“Maybe just a dagger, then. For self-defense.” From anyone who was maybe thinking of pushing me into a well, for example.

Jeyne seemed to think this a much more reasonable, if not entirely suitable, thing for me to learn. Cersei was not so convinced.

“You’ll always have some guard or knight around to protect you. I don’t see any reason why you ought to learn such things. You won’t be better at wielding a dagger than they will a sword.”

“Of course, Lady Cersei! You’re so smart, Lady Cersei,” Jeyne gushed.

Jeyne, I’m the one who’s supposed to be kissing Cersei’s ass. You don’t have as much to worry about as I do!

“Maybe I’ll just do it for exercise. Like taking strolls or riding a horse, you know? And if something happens where I’d need to use it, gods forbid, it could be useful.” It could be useful past the well incident, too.

Cersei opened her mouth to protest, but was interrupted by Jaime, who at some point during our quarrel had put his sword away and made his way over.

“Why don’t we ask Father to consider it, Cersei? I don’t see any harm, and if the master-at-arms isn’t troubled by it, why shouldn’t she?”

She gaped at him like a fish, her face and neck coloring.

“I think it could be interesting, a girl learning how to fight.”

I clenched my fists and looked down, too scared to look up and face my doom in the form of little Cersei Lannister. I could feel how burning her glare was. Jaime, how could you do this to me?!

How the hell is it that I’m raising _more_ death-flags than the original Melara Hetherspoon?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't give up!


	6. The Book

Since the incident in the yard, I had resolved to give both Cersei and Jaime as wide a berth as possible so that she could cool off and wouldn’t think I was trying to catch his eye. I spent that time in the library trying to find anything that could be helpful in ensuring my making it to adulthood.

I looked into genealogies and maps, trying to find a minor house that I hadn’t heard of and therefore, I hoped, was less likely to become fully entangled in the Lannisters’ conflict with the Starks and just about everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. If things went according to show canon, the Vale wouldn’t stay neutral forever, but along with Dorne it was the least likely to become directly embroiled in conflict. But then again, Dorne might end up siding with fAegon, and that seemed _really_ ill-fated.

This sucks. It really, really does. Any house I’ve heard of before now seems like it’s going to have something awful happen to it. Maybe I should try to escape to Essos or something.

Why did my past self have to go and die before George R. R. Martin finished the series?

I found myself thinking that over and over as I frowned at the spines of books and made my way through the disorganized aisles. I pulled a thick tome bound in red leather off the shelves and blew dust from the cover. I tried to make out the fine gilded title, hand-painted onto the front cover and worn with age enough to make it illegible. I opened it and gave the title page another shot. I hadn’t been a huge reader before I recalled memories of my past life, so I wasn’t used to reading books that had been copied completely by hand in stylized Westerosi script. Thank god “Common Tongue” really was just spoken and written English, or I would have had a way bigger problem on my hands than that.

_Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros  
by Archmaester Gyldayn of the Citadel of Oldtown_

What the fuck? What the _actual_ fuck?

I dropped the book as if it were literally made of fire. My hands shook and my gorge rose.

Maybe on some level, in some tiny place in my heart, I had hoped that it was all a delusion. I was afraid to pick the book up, I realized. I was afraid to read from it and see if the words were ones I had read before. Melara Hetherspoon certainly never read a dense and dry history book like this.

If the words were the same… then it would mean that all those memories really were true. There would be no question about the fact that my short life’s story was told in just a few sentences of a book.

Was I trying to fight fate by trying to escape my death? And was it even something that could be avoided?

“Why have you cast that book upon the floor?”

I jumped at the sudden voice and looked to the end of the aisle. It was Jeyne Farman. This was the first time she had spoken to me when Cersei wasn’t present, and I was surprised to hear no accusation in her voice, only curiosity. I searched my mind for an answer that would make sense.

“I saw something I didn’t like in it.”

She nodded, as if my odd behavior wasn’t at all something she had time to be concerned about after all.

“Lady Cersei has begun to notice that you’re absent more often than not, lately,” she pointed out.

“I… I did not want to trouble her. I don’t believe her to be terribly fond of me and thought better of continuing stoking her ire with my presence.”

“She isn’t fond of anyone save her brother,” and as soon as the bitter words left her, Jeyne clapped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes widened and she dropped her hands, speaking swiftly. “Oh, you mustn’t tell her I’ve said that! She’ll be so wroth with me if she finds out. It’s only since you’ve been here, really, that she’s been nicer to me.”

I let Jeyne say her piece. It was exactly as I had suspected.

“It’s alright, Jeyne. I understand. I won’t tell.”

“You won’t?” Her face lit up with a real smile then, the first one I had seen that wasn’t the forced one she assumed when Cersei said mean things or played cruel japes on me. It hit me fully how Jeyne was just a little girl, after all. She wanted to fit in. I had been looking at her like a side character who didn’t have all that much to do with the main story. Just a flat image. But we were both side characters, really. And maybe there’s a kind of camaraderie in that.

“I won’t,” I assured her warmly.

“Oh, thank you, Melara! Thank you! You’re much too kind. If you come back and the three of us spend more time together, I promise the two of us will play together and read books together and anything you like when we’re alone!”

It was just the friendship of a girl who was trying to be the less bullied one out of two. She wasn’t so strong that she could sacrifice herself, but then, how could she act any different? And what the hell, all I’ve done is made an enemy so far, so I could use a friend here.

“I would like that very much, Jeyne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not so easy being Jeyne Farman, either, is it? Though I'd take it over being Melara Hetherspoon any day of the week.


	7. The Dagger

Today was my first lesson out in the yard. The master-at-arms was a surprisingly good-humored sort of man for being a member of the imposing Lord Tywin’s household. Ser Benedict Broom had laugh-lines by his eyes despite his youth and seemed more amused than anything that an eleven-year-old girl was keen to learn self defense.

The knife was made of blunt wood. It was a far-cry from an ancestral Valyrian steel blade, but hey, I’d take regular weapons if that’s what kept me out of the way of the rampaging train that was the main plot.

“Hold it gently until you find the right grip now, girl, but don’t be letting your wrist go limp like a fish, either.”

It was clear that Ser Benedict had taught his fair share of noble children. I had seen how direct and specific his instructions were just by watching him instruct Jaime when Cersei, Jeyne, and I went out to watch them. He was even more patient with me.

“You aren’t likely to be using this on any man in full armor. A dagger would be much too short to go far into any gaps in that and I reckon they won’t be that clothed if you ever need to fight them off.”

I nodded gravely.

“Self defense is only useful if it can actually protect you. You’ll want to aim for the vitals. That’s here,” he pointed to his eyes, “here,” each side of his throat and under his chin, “and here,” his kidneys. “Don’t be trying to go for the heart. Ribs and the like will be in the way, and you’ll have the best advantage while your enemy isn’t on guard. Surprise will be what’ll help you most, remember that if nothing else.”

“Eyes, neck, kidneys. Element of surprise. Got it.” He laughed.

“You’ve got fire in you, girl! Hope you’ll find a man who appreciates it when you’re a woman grown.”

Hopefully, I’ll be able to make it to being a woman grown, period.

Cersei and Jeyne had decided to play audience for my first lesson, maybe in hopes that I would make a fool of myself. Well, Cersei probably hoped for that, anyway. Ever since Jeyne and I had exchanged words in the library, she hadn’t been so quick to follow Cersei’s lead in teasing me, even if she always eventually did. And, true to her word, we had spent time together. It was probably guilt, but she was happy to tell me anything that would make my life at Casterly Rock easier. I certainly wasn’t about to complain about that.

Ser Benedict brought me over to a scarecrow by the far end of the yard. No, it was a straw training dummy, not a scarecrow, though they looked much the same.

“Now I know it doesn’t look precisely like a man and it’s well beat-up, but no proper fighter, whether they’re a knight or a lady, starts training with a live person or live steel. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you looked at the weapon I gave you. Wood or no, you’ve got to respect your weapon, girl!”

“Yes, ser!”

He gave a belly laugh. “That’s the spirit! Now try striking where this dummy’s kidneys might be. Bring the blade pointing up and into the side.” He mimed a sharp thrust with his fist into the part of the dummy I was meant to strike.

I nodded and took a breath, dropped to a steadier stance with bent knees, and jabbed into the straw filled sack that formed the dummy’s body. I pulled my hand away and a few pieces of straw came with me.

Ser Benedict grinned his approval and I couldn’t help but grin back.

“Now that’s all very well, but if you look like you’re about to strike your enemy, they’ve already got you. You don’t want to go on giving up your biggest advantage!”

He was right. If whoever pushed me into the well saw my obvious defensive maneuvering, it would be over. And unless it was an unrelated catspaw, it was pretty likely that whoever it was could well be in this courtyard one day learning exactly what steps I would take. That wasn’t great.

I looked over at Cersei and Jeyne. They had been watching me intently. I gave a small wave in their direction which was, of course, ignored. Cersei has her own interests outside of whatever grievances she has with me. I’m sure soon she’ll get bored of watching my slow progress and find something else to do while I’m out here. She can’t keep this up for months. Years.

I hope.

“Eyes here!”

So Ser Benedict had me practice drawing my dagger from my sleeve. First slowly, to get the correct movement, and then faster in hopes of getting to “a speed that might actually be useful one day.” I appreciated his frankness. At least someone took the level of threat this world posed me seriously.

I appreciated having to draw a dagger from my sleeve repeatedly for three hours a bit less. Cersei and Jeyne had gotten bored and left after the first hour.

“Stamina is a soldier’s best weapon! You’ll need the muscle to wield it if it’s to do you any good!”

I’m not planning on becoming a soldier, Ser Benedict! Is all this really necessary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, no amount of training can give you plot armor


	8. The Kitchens

Cersei and Jaime’s ninth nameday was fast approaching. I had no idea what to get either of them as presents, or if, as a child, I would even be expected to. I certainly couldn’t embroider anything for them, that was for sure.

Any skills that I had before, whether they were from my life as Melara or my past life, felt foreign. My body itself still felt pretty foreign, for that matter. I could hardly sit a horse anymore. My past self had only ever been on a pony ride, and that was when I was, like, five. And I had tried swimming to disastrous results, because as Melara, I had never learned how.

Basic things like walking and running were okay because both of us could do that. Most everything else took as much effort as learning something for the first time.

I had been a decent cook in my past life, so I was trying to figure out the mechanics of chopping, stirring, and frying again. Cooking on an open flame was a completely novel experience. The scullery servants and head cook were horrified that I was in the kitchens at all, but didn’t seem to know how to remove a lord’s daughter after seeing how insistent I was on learning how to cook.

After all, worst case scenario, I could flee in the night, renounce my name, and keep a little inn. Just not by any crossroads.

A nice scullery maid who took a shine to me because we both had freckles was teaching me about the oven. It reminded me of wood-burning pizza stoves, and it seemed like a huge amount of work to keep a steady temperature. When she opened the heavy, black iron door to load in loaves of risen bread, a blast of heat like the hottest day of summer hit your face.

“Is there butter here? And sugar?”

“Of course, dear- that is- milady.”

“Then there’s something I’d like to try making.”

Even if I lacked the muscle memory, I still knew intellectually how to make cookies. Cream the butter and sugar until it’s fluffy, mix in the eggs until smooth, then add the flour and some salt until just incorporated. They’d be better with some vanilla extract and chocolate chips, but I’m pretty sure those were both New World crops.

But maybe Essos is Asia and Europe and Westeros is the Americas? Mormont’s Raven does eat corn, after all.

Whatever, whatever.

“Hey!”

I jumped at the sudden shout. Cersei was standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

“What are you doing in here? Playing at being a servant?” She huffed a laugh that was both uncertain and haughty. “It suits you.”

“No, my lady. I was simply thinking to make a birthday gift for you.”

“ _Make_ one? What, could it be House Hetherspoon is too poor to actually buy me a proper gift?”

“I’m certain my Lady Cersei could have anything she wants that money could buy, being from such a great house. So I thought, why compete with that? I could show you more of my feelings with something a bit different.”

Her nose wrinkled. “And you thought to give me something that could instead be compared to meals made by practiced cooks who know my taste well. Well, worry not for I don’t accept. And I don’t want to see you presenting them to Jaime, either! He needn’t taste something foul to spare your feelings.”

She flicked her golden curls over her shoulder and left the kitchens. My friend the scullion patted my shoulder. As I turned, I saw the cookies in the pan, golden and gently sweet smelling, even if they didn’t have chocolate or vanilla.

_Crunch_

Well, _I_ think they taste good.

I gathered them into a cloth bundle. Jeyne might like to share them, if I could just find her. She shared Cersei’s chambers most nights, though in truth it was Jeyne and I who were to share a room. I often found her reading near to there during the day, and hoped today might be the same.

I looked in all the good reading spots, but she wasn’t there. There were soft words being spoken in the nursery, so I peeked past the door inside.

It was Jaime, and he was talking to Tyrion. He was alarmingly tiny despite being two years old. Though he wasn’t able to hold a conversation with Jaime yet, his mismatched eyes looked very focused on what his brother was saying to him.

“Girl!” he shouted, very suddenly and high-pitched. Jaime looked over his shoulder and regarded me.

“It is a girl, very good. That’s Melara.”

“Me-ara.” Tyrion’s tongue slipped over the “L” in my name. I curtsied. “Whadare you holding?”

I looked at the cloth bundle in my hands. Oh no. No, no, no. I can’t be giving cookies to Tyrion and Jaime Lannister. If Cersei found out, it would be my head! Having Jaime react to me positively is one thing, but getting along with Tyrion? That would definitely be unforgivable in her eyes.

“Yes, it smells sweet. What is it?” Jaime asked. He was smiling fondly at Tyrion, and it seemed he was more interested in the fact that his little brother was curious about something than my being in the room.

“Um… uh, they’re- they’re cookies.”

“What?”

“I mean, they’re, uh, crunchy little cakes.” I kneeled in front of Tyrion and allowed him to take one. “I made them just now.” He bit into it, and his eyes lit up like something earth-shattering had just happened.

“It seems he likes them very much!” Jaime, who I had wagered had no interest in anything save Cersei and training with a sword, seemed genuinely pleased instead of his usual bored amusement. I had totally neglected to factor in the one other part of his life he seemed to care about.

Please don’t look at me with a smile like that, Jaime Lannister! Don’t you know you’ll be the death of me?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch your step, Melara Hetherspoon!


	9. The Painting

I know I shouldn’t be snooping, but I have to get a leg up somehow. I think I can be forgiven for going through a little girl’s desk if it prevents another little girl from _dying._

For once, Cersei had left the door to her chambers unlocked. She hated when I touched anything of hers, or when Jeyne did for that matter. Maybe she had a diary hidden away in here. Or maybe she was hiding love poetry for Jaime.

On second thought, knowing her, it didn’t seem likely. She wasn’t the sentimental type, except perhaps in the future, when it comes to her kids.

There was calligraphy practice for Septa Yulia and notes about various houses of the Westerlands. House Lannister was first on the list.

_Peerless, even among the Great Houses. In Posession of the greatest Beauty and most fabulous Wealth._

Not to mention the Most Modesty. I scanned down to House Hetherspoon. It wasn’t even on the front of the page.

_I have never been to Braken Bailey but can only assume it to be Provincial. They have produced a daughter whose only virtue is that she is healthy as a little horse. She is crass._

Well… at least the opposite of love is indifference? I found House Farman next.

_Produces fair ships. Good to keep close the House that provides the navy._

Oh, so the Hetherspoons are provincial, but the Farmans produce fair ships, is that it? I noticed a tiny note squeezed into the margin.

_Overfed daughter. But very obedient._

What is this, a B--n Book?

I left the desk to look elsewhere. There was an awfully tempting… something that was covered by a sheet in the corner of the room. I lifted it off. It was the back of an easel.

Walking to look at the stretched canvas sitting on it, I realized immediately that it was a portrait of Jaime. Not a formal one, and the colors were brighter than you’d normally see a portraitist employ, but it was honestly a striking likeness. Rather than trying to get each precise detail of his face right, the artist had striven to catch the mirth that always seemed to dance in his eyes.

I was considering how the artist achieved that effect when the next thing I knew I had been shoved to the floor. Dazed, I looked up to see Cersei, red-faced and seething.

“Did I give you permission to come in here?” she shrieked. “To put your hands all over my things?”

She was just a child, but the sheer intensity of her anger was enough to freeze me in place.

“Well?!”

“No, my lady.”

“Then _why_ were you in here?”

A half-formed excuse came to my lips about Jeyne requesting I fetch something for her that she had forgotten in here the night before.

“ _Liar!_ I know she doesn’t talk to you.”

She had me there, as far as she knew. She stood over me, and I could see that there was a storm contained in her. Cersei wanted to do something to put me in my place. It was there, in her dilated pupils. The question was, was it safer in the long run for me to let her?

But as abruptly as she came in and pushed me, her boiling rage cooled to a simmer.

“Leave, and if I hear that you’ve told anyone about what you saw, I’ll find a way to have your father punished.”

I swallowed. That was a heavy threat to be coming from the mouth of a nine-year-old. But this nine-year-old’s father could do much and more to my family with ease. I should leave. I should run back to my room and never even let myself think about what I saw.

So I don’t know why I risked saying anything.

“But why? You’ve painted such a beautiful likeness.” Cersei bristled again at my words, so I rushed to continue. “You capture the character of the subject so perfectly. You have a keen eye and a truly deep understanding of his nature that I will always lack.”

She stared at me for a moment and then, remarkably, she relaxed. Not only that, she offered a hand to help me to my feet. Despite my uncertainty, I took it, and that’s just what she did. She didn’t push me down or pinch me or anything of the like.

“You say something good every once in a while. Do you not, Melara Hetherspoon?”

And then, most remarkably of all, she smiled at me.


	10. The Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to [The_Watcher_on_the_Wall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Watcher_on_the_Wall/pseuds/The_Watcher_on_the_Wall) who was very kindly concerned for my health. I am very much alive and did not have the rona 👍

It was a crisp morning when I spotted it against the bright blue sky through one of the sea-facing arrowslits. It came from the south and looked like a gull, but it was more massive and flew higher than the rest.

By midday, all anyone in the castle wanted to talk about was the arrival of the white raven.

Spring, huh? I’d be lying if I said I was sorry to see winter go. Reading about a three year long winter was one thing. _Living_ it was another thing entirely. How could a medieval society survive one not only that long, but that unpredictable?

We never went hungry in Casterly Rock. Frankly, I was surprised by the variety of what was on the table. Lemons, oranges, lettuces - and all varieties of meats and fish, of course. You’d hardly know it was winter at all given that there were no planes or massive barges to bring fruits and vegetables from the other hemisphere. It sure was nice to be born on top of a literal gold mine, wasn’t it?

I half-sat on an ottoman (ever since I regained my memories and learned the name of low, backless cushioned seats, having to say all that was agonizing), sharing it with Jeyne. Cersei lounged on a settee as two maids pulled out cotton and linen dresses that would soon be necessary in the warmer weather for her to inspect. Her brow was knitted in apparent dissatisfaction.

“No, no, no,” she said, obviously exasperated. “The sleeves are _far_ too short. It’s been three years. None of them will fit properly anymore.” She turned to the two of us. “Am I wrong?”

“No, Lady Cersei,” Jeyne and I replied in impressive unison. Cersei nodded firmly.

That was the progress I had achieved through our interaction. The day after, I wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t all been a dream. It was bizarre, seeing her act so differently. She had been as haughty as ever, but the lack of hostility was just… it felt _foreign_. What was more surprising was the fact that it had continued. I seemed to be on the same level as Jeyne now, in her eyes. Still held in contempt and not liked, per se, but tolerated.

This was my first time back in her chamber since then, and the covered easel had since been moved. I was careful not to cast my eyes around too obviously to look for it. Even if she seemed okay with how I had reacted to her painting, she didn’t seem to want an accidental repeat of the incident.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” Cersei said.

“A wonderful idea, my lady,” I said reactively.

“Excellent, then I’ll inform Father. The two of you should find some fabrics as well on our trip.”

What? What trip?

“Oh, how exciting!” Jeyne exclaimed, clasping her hands. “I’ve never been to Lannisport.”

Wait, Lannisport? As in, _that_ Lannisport? The setting of a very unfortunate incident in the short life of Melara Hetherspoon?

No way! _Absolutely_ no way! Wasn’t it still too early? Viserys hasn’t even been born yet!

“O-oh, but my lady, I shouldn’t want to trouble you when the trip should be about your own dresses…” I said weakly.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “I can’t very well go about being embarrassed by a companion who looks like she can’t even afford a new dress.”

_Oh, come on!_

“If that’s what Lady Cersei wishes, then of course.”

“Good.”

Cersei stood, and Jeyne and I hurried to follow her as she left her chambers. She strode through the halls to Lord Tywin’s solar, knocking and entering before she got a response. He was seated at a great desk, reading a letter.

“Father,” she greeted, dropping into a curtsy before him. Jeyne and I followed suit. “Now that the season is changing, I am in need of new dresses.”

“Very well,” he said, not bothering to look away from his work. “I’ll have the steward send for a fabric merchant to come by month’s end.”

Come here? Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, Tywin Lannister, you beautiful man. You shining star.

“Father, I was rather hoping that we might travel to the merchants ourselves. In Lannisport.” He looked up then.

“To the merchants…? Why in the world would you want to do that?”

Never had I appreciated the Lannisters' level of insane rich person logic more than I did then.

“Oh, but it’s so close, Father, would it not be faster to simply go ourselves? And it’s been so long since we’ve left the castle, with winter having dragged on so long. Surely it would be lovely to go for the sake of an excursion.”

He considered his daughter, and I looked at her, too. The expression on her face was halfway between an angel and a sad puppy and frankly, I don’t know how the hell she pulled it off. But I knew in a second that I had lost.

“Very well,” he said in a tone that was bafflingly close to warmth.

Damn it, you indulgent dad! Aren’t you supposed to be as hard and unyielding as steel?!


	11. The City

Lannisport was, in a word, overwhelming.

It wasn’t as though I had never been to a city in my past life, but the sights, smells, and sounds of a modern metropolis were completely different from this. As soon as we cleared the northern gates, the assault began.

The streets were narrow, and the buildings lining them appeared to lean like hunch-backed old men towards us. Passage by anything wider than a wagon didn’t seem possible from how market stalls lined each side. Their attending fishmongers, butchers, bakers, and grocers cried out their wares, shouting barely inches away from us. The smells of mud, manure, and the sickly-sweet odor of rot all mingled.

It was still cold enough that we were bundled up inside the carriage. I sat on one side with Jeyne. Opposite us, Cersei and Jaime spoke quietly to each other, low enough so I couldn’t make out the words, occasionally breaking out into giggles.

Next to them was Ser Kevan Lannister, who acted as our chaperone. He looked about as enthusiastic about the whole situation as I felt.

Jeyne told me about a new horse in the stables she was keen to take out. Her eyes were alight with excitement, and I felt a little prickle of pain in my heart. I should learn to ride again. I know in my mind, if not my heart, that I used to really love it before. Maybe I was as afraid of not enjoying it once I was astride a horse as I was of being injured again.

I was able to shake my melancholy as I watched the streets begin to widen and felt the air clear into something saltier. Stalls were spaced more widely, replaced by shop fronts identified by painted picture signs. A few wrote the names of the establishments or the services along with the pictograms. Blacksmiths, tinsmiths, coopers. The rhythmic hammering from every door almost sounded like a band made up entirely of xylophones and marimbas.

The buildings closest to the dock were the grandest. Each of them had at least three stories and some even had mullioned windows to showcase brilliant displays of hammered gold jewelry, ornate textiles, and carpets. By contrast, across the way, fishwives carried oysters and clams in boxes that sat by their stomachs, held up by shoulder straps. Boxes and barrels were stacked high by the huge, sailed ships that rocked on the waves of the bay.

The carriage came to a stop. Jaime hopped out quickly, even before Ser Kevan. He offered a hand to Cersei to help her down to the street. She picked up her skirts, affecting a more graceful manner than she usually did and primly clasped his outstretched fingers. They both erupted in giggles again, like there was some sort of joke that only the two of them were privy to.

Once inside, the fabric merchant was quick to usher us into a back room filled with embroidered and brocaded fabrics dyed with the most expensive colors. They were prepared in advance, spread on a table and arranged to accentuate their most charming attributes. Cersei and Jeyne poured over them with intense focus. Jaime seemed content to observe the excitement on his sister’s face. I turned to a set of shelves piled with bolts of fabrics. I stroked the pile of dark crimson velvet. Jaime and Ser Kevan were wearing doublets of a material much like it.

I realized then that I was beginning to forget the feeling of machine-made textiles. They were very thin, weren’t they? And smoother than this?

“Found something you like, milady?”

It was a young woman, richly dressed but not of noble birth - it was easy to remember that George R. R. Martin liked to differentiate classes by speech when there was an exchange between Tywin and Arya about the difference between “milord” and “my lord.” Was she the merchant’s daughter, then?

“Yes,” I replied. “Well, just getting a look at everything.”

“The crimson is splendidly eye-catching. If there’s someone the lady has her eye on,” she subtly indicated Jaime with just her eyes, “This is an excellent choice.”

“O-oh!” I sputtered. “Oh no, there’s no one like that. And thank you, but I’m mostly here to help my friend select something that suits her.” She cocked her head.

“No? So you’re not at the age where that’s begun to interest you.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, or even whether she meant clothes or boys, so I let silence serve as an indication of bashfulness. The truth was that, at least on the inside, I was old enough that I couldn’t possibly think of anyone near my body’s age romantically.

She smiled a playful sort of smile. “Perhaps you’d rather curse a man than make him fall in love?”

A pit formed in my stomach.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just idle talk, really. But,” she drew the word out melodiously, “I’ve heard there’s a woman who lives in the city who has such powers.”

My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.

“And this woman’s name?”

“Maggy. Well, her name isn’t Margaret or Margaery. No one knows her true one. She hails from Essos, they say.”

Stay calm. Of course she exists and lives in Lannisport. I already knew she would. Just hearing about her doesn’t mean anything special.

“But like you said. Just idle talk. Superstition of the smallfolk.”

“You say that, milady, but pardon my saying - you’re white as a sheet. Superstition or no.”

It’s not magic I’m afraid of. And I don’t believe fearing a fate I know to be true could be called superstition. My memories, they aren’t like prophecy. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on my bullshit


	12. The Stone Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This silly little fic cracked a hundred kudos thanks to y'all! And by total coincidence, this chapter is slightly longer.
> 
> Add me on Discord if you like! Lily#5508

Most unexpectedly, Septa Yulia begged to be relieved from her post. She cited that her body was beginning to decline and that Oldtown would be better suited to her than the many stone stairways of the Rock. Lord Tywin allowed it, for she had already penned a letter to a younger septa, one she sung the praises of as better learned than she despite her young age.

Her name was Saranella, and she came across as far friendlier. She made a point of delivering letters addressed to Jeyne and I from the rookery, as unusual an occurrence it was for us to receive personal correspondence. It was a charming gesture. It took away a bit of the uneasy and frustrated feeling I got from most of the letters’ contents.

One was staring at me from the mantle, the orange wax unbroken for the past two days. It was rare that a response was expected from me, but I had let this one sit longer than was wise. I took a deep breath, opened it, and read.

_My Dear Melara,_

_We pray to the Mother daily to protect your health._

It was in Maester Jon’s handwriting, though the first few words after common pleasantries made it clear that it was dictated by Father, not Mother or Tyrek.

_Lord Lannister has noted your sweet temperament, and I am proud to hear it. I have more than once lamented that you might be too strong-willed for your own safety and am glad to have been proven wrong._

_Yet I still hear nothing of any fondness between yourself and young Jaime. I confess that this concerns me. Nearly two years you’ve fostered together, and you have not given me any indication that you’ve been able to turn the lad’s interest once._

_I trust you to listen well to your Father, Melara, as you’ve already proven to be able. I speak only out of concern and fondness for you, as always._

_Tybolt Hetherspoon_

There was a knock at the door.

“Melara?” Cersei’s voice!

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

I hastily threw the letter into the fire. Father, are you trying to get me killed?!

She opened the door without invitation. Be cool. Don’t look at the fireplace.

“Hey.”

“... Hay?”

Fuck, too cool!

“I mean, hello. How, um, how are you?”

Her brow furrowed.

“I’m well. There’s a piece of parchment burning in the fireplace.”

“O-oh. Huh, there is, isn’t there?”

“What was written on it?”

Think fast, think fast.

“Oh, you know… just… just my mother! My mother, she’s being embarrassing and asking me if I’ve had my first moon blood yet. You know!”

Cersei regarded me oddly.

“No. I don’t know.”

That’s right. Tyrion was still so little, so it wasn’t that long ago that Joanna Lannister had died.

“A-apologies, my lady, that was thoughtless of me.”

“That’s alright, Melara. I prefer your thoughtlessness to the past two years I’ve spent being treated as though one wrong word will break me like glass.”

Cersei Lannister was devastated by the death of her mother. That much I knew. So, I think it was fair to say my surprise at this was warranted.

“Come with me. I didn’t come to talk about the letter you were burning.”

She left the room before I could ask where she meant for us to go.

“You’ve seen the Stone Garden before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, my lady.” Once. The godswood had been named well. It was a cavern full of black, tree-like stalagmites. The only actual tree that could live in it was a white weirwood. I had forgotten that some Southern houses still had heart trees. It’s roots and branches filled every corner like a pale, cave-dwelling animal that had never seen light. I had no desire to make a second trip to it.

“Most other great castles have a godswood more fit for strolls. And we have gardens, but there’s another place, nearer to the top of the Rock.”

“I see.”

I had never been anywhere close to the top of the Rock. If the Wall was eight hundred feet tall, the Rock was at least twice that. Already, I had no idea where we were. It was as my father said, I had lived here for nearly two years, and yet I didn’t know half the tunnels and shafts.

We stopped in front of a tired-looking man beside a pulley and doorway. Upon seeing us, he straightened his posture.

“We’re going up,” Cersei told him. If there was a flicker of despair in his eyes, I didn’t remark on it.

“Yes milady.”

“To the top of this shaft,” she clarified. He bowed.

I’m sorry, ser. I don’t think I want to climb literally over a thousand feet.

~

I should have climbed. I should have taken the stairs. Oh god, am I alive? I’m alive, right?

“Come on, Melara. It wasn’t that bad. You’re being a baby.”

“You’re trying to kill me,” I muttered.

Cersei ignored me and dragged me along. I could go the rest of my life without riding in that… contraption again. There was no way I’d take it going back down.

“Stop being dramatic. It wasn’t that bad. It was worth it, you’ll see.”

The air in this tunnel, for that was a more accurate term than hallway, felt fresher than the part of the castle where we lived. I soon saw why. It grew wider and wider, from nearly too narrow for a man grown to pass through comfortably to about fifteen feet. We were walking side by side when we arrived.

The first thing I noticed were trees. Dozens of them, none very tall, with roots that crawled across lichen-covered boulders in search of water. Mostly wiry pines, and a few maples and oaks. None were much taller than either of us.

Cersei picked up her skirts and began to make her way across the boulder field with practiced ease. I followed her steps, climbing moss-slick rock face that went up on a gentle incline. I followed carefully until she stopped abruptly. All the trees were behind us now, and a few feet ahead of us was a cliff’s edge, facing east. Aside from a few rocky outcroppings clustered close to the Rock, flat, verdant farmland stretched to the darkening horizon. Green wheat. I had seen it up close on our way to and from Lannisport.

“Sit,” she commanded. I sat, and so did she. She laid back on the rock fully, and stared meaningfully at me until I did the same.

The air had been cool and there was wind this high up and close to the ocean, but the rock was still warm from the midday sun.

“I like to think of this as the _real_ Stone Garden. The other may be Father’s, but thiis one is mine.”

“I can see why.”

The sky was growing rapidly darker now that the sun was on the other side of the Rock. A familiar noise started up. It wasn’t only trees that lived here. It was a trilling sound, growing louder and softer moment to moment. It was summer, and there were katydids living in this world, too.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” The sound of my voice surprised me. It sounded too thick. Wrong. All wrong. I scrubbed at my eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

“I…” I thought of what to say. What could I say, _really_ say, to anybody, let alone Cersei Lannister? “I’m homesick.”

“Oh.” I heard her nails tapping on the stone beneath us in agitation. “You shouldn’t cry. My ladies have to be made of stronger stuff than that.”

She sounded so pompous and uncomfortable I couldn’t help but laugh through my tears.

“I’ll try to be stronger for you, my lady.”

“Good. That's good.” After that, we were silent.

So Cersei was still a little girl, after all. She had her sweet moments.


End file.
